


Steps will always rhyme

by morganya



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-15
Updated: 2010-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-20 08:29:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/morganya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coffeehouse AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steps will always rhyme

Travis isn't surprised when Gabe doesn't want to put the open mic on the schedule. He lets Travis know this, loudly and in great detail, as he goes through a stack of head shots and demo tapes and Travis goes over the volunteer list.

"Open mics are vehicles for false creativity," Gabe informs him. "When was the last time anyone ever said something true at a goddamn open mic? Bunch of jaded apathetic fucks just saying the same thing over and over. How many goddamn poems about clouds you think they'll bring with them? It's asinine and poseur-y and I won't do it."

Gabe hadn't wanted to schedule Comedy Night either, because he'd said that the world was too fucked up to allow for mother-in-law and airline jokes. He hadn't wanted to have the Arctic folk singers in because he said that folk music made him want to puke. Travis has learned by experience that the best course of action when first attempting to set up the shows for each season is just to nod and say, "Of course, my dear."

"Fake catharsis," Gabe says, looking balefully at the press release for some improv group. "Get the experience of baring your soul without actually doing any spiritual work whatsoever. It's bullshit."

"Of course, my dear." Travis crosses one of the Alexes' names off the volunteer list; he'd gone backpacking in Tibet and wouldn't be back any time soon.

"And it's repetitive. No one's going to even try something new, they're too scared and numbed by television. Three fuckin' hours of repeats."

"Of course, my dear." Travis realizes with irritation that one of the kitchen crew just up and got married and won't be coming in anymore either. The only one on the crew who could make a decent coconut cupcake just split on them. He really doesn't want to have to take over baking duty too. He hates cooking.

"And they'll all bring their mommies and daddies in for moral support, too, and you know they won't be up for any fun. The last time around some lady gave me a twenty minute talking-to just because I said cocksucker once or twice over the PA. What am I supposed to do, put a swear jar on stage?"

"Of course, my dear." Maybe coconut isn't a great menu choice. Not many people like coconut; they never sell well. Travis and Gabe always end up paying out of pocket and bringing the leftovers home. Plus it's starting to get difficult to justify to the Board of Directors why exactly the budget needs an extra fifty bucks a month just for coconut flakes.

"Travie, you're not even paying attention."

"Of course, my dear," Travis says and smirks.

"What the fuck?" Gabe says. "Have I just been talking to myself? I'm going to go work on the advertising budget again." He leaves the room with an air of offended dignity.

Travis sits and waits. It takes a day or two, but then Gabe looks at him over dinner and says, "You know, a lot of kids really don't get the opportunity to go out and meet people of like mind, you know? They're stuck up in their room writing poetry and fucking around on their guitars or whatever. You can't grow like that. Like, if we had an open mic or something, that could be the only outlet they get to do what they love, you know?"

"You're a goddamn _genius_ , babe," Travis says, grinning, and Gabe grins back, pleased, before he says, "Well, duh."

"Also, I forgot, I think we maybe need to take the cupcake thing off the menu."

Gabe's face falls. "What?"

"We lost the only person who could bake them last month," Travis says. "Have you tried the shit Andy calls coconut cupcakes? They're like snowballs with dirty rocks in them."

"I loved those fuckin' cupcakes."

"Yeah, me too," Travis says. "I think we're the only ones, though."

They hold maybe a couple shows a month. It used to be less, especially at the beginning when Travis had to make up for the lack of a PA by shouting real loud and Gabe spent the refreshment budget by dashing back and forth to the 7-11 in between sets.

They still managed to put on killer shows. Gabe says proudly that they succeeded on pure hustle. Travis is inclined to agree.

On the night of the open mic, the volunteer who usually runs the refreshment booth doesn't show up, so Travis has to take over. He likes the refreshment booth. He has exacting standards about what makes a decent beverage, and it gives him a chance to survey the crowd while Gabe's racing around making sure the lights are set up and the sound system isn't going to take a dump on them.

It's a good crowd, mostly high school and college kids clutching guitars and loose-leaf notebooks and pounding back espressos to kill their nerves, which is for sure going to backfire on them. Travis tries to gently steer them towards the chamomile-lemon balm tea, but his powers are limited. He hears Wu-Tang start up on the sound system and figures Gabe's getting ready to run the show.

Gabe usually insists on emceeing from behind the light board because he says it makes him feel like the voice of God. He's good at it unless he doesn't have any notes to work with. Then he tends to get rambly and forget where he is, which leads to things like the cocksucker incident. Travis passes him up a bottle of water and the signup sheet. Gabe drinks the water in two gulps and gives Travis a shaky smile. Travis says, "Wave at me when you want more."

Gabe starts the show not terribly auspiciously with, "Yo, can anyone hear me?" but it evens out after that. There's a lot of girls in long skirts and acoustic guitars singing folked-up versions of Lady GaGa, poems about how no one in the world understood anything, one creepy story about zombies that made Travis hope the kid's parents have a talk with him real soon. It's sort of what he expected.

He notices the guy in the back about half an hour in. He's not being loud, but he's slouched in the chair and making faces at the people on stage, rolling his eyes and flicking bits of paper that he tears off his coffee cup. There's one girl on stage who looks about to cry anyway, and her voice is shaking. Travis looks around for someone to watch the register for him; they're not due to open the booth until intermission, he just needs someone to stand there while he goes and has a word.

It looks like Gabe noticed it too, because Travis suddenly notices him gesturing one of the Alexes, the tall one, over to the light board and hopping down from his perch. Alex gives Travis a _what the hell's he doing_ look. Travis shrugs.

Gabe bends almost in half over the guy's chair, saying something in his ear. Travis doesn't hear the exchange, but then the guy rolls his eyes at Gabe and tries to turn away, at which point Gabe very casually grabs him by the scruff of the neck and marches him out of the room.

The crowd doesn't seem to notice, either because it happened too quickly or they're willfully looking the other way. Travis locks up the register and hopes no one takes it upon themselves to try to jimmy it open. Gabe has enthusiasm but not much stamina, and he's probably going to need backup.

"You tore my fucking jacket," he hears the guy saying as he's approaching. He's standing on the street. Gabe is blocking the doorway, one elbow on the frame.

"You can go home now, my brother, or you can keep talking shit," Gabe says. He's speaking with the slow, overenunciated diction that comes about five minutes before he goes into screaming in angry Spanish. "You think the kids in there appreciate you being an asshole while they're trying to do their thing?"

"They're not even famous, who gives a shit?"

"You paid money to watch a show, you didn't pay to bring anyone down," Gabe says. "Let me tell you something –"

Travis comes and stands behind Gabe's shoulder. He doesn't think he needs to say anything, so he just stares the guy down. He takes a cigarette and lights it without breaking his gaze. The guy looks at him. Travis exhales smoke through his nose.

"You know what, fuck you," the guy says and walks away.

"Prick," Gabe says, still vibrating.

"Alex doesn't know how to run the light board," Travis says quietly. "And I think someone's probably walking off with the register right now. Come back in."

"What kind of asshole pays to go be an asshole?" Gabe says. "That's meant to be for _free_."

"Intermission's in ten minutes," Travis says. It seems to snap Gabe out of it; he says, "Oh my fucking God," and rushes back inside.

The rest of the show goes smoothly, maybe because Gabe introduces intermission by saying, "Anybody thinking about starting to start shit when people are trying to express themselves can just leave our house right now. We've got no room for that." Thankfully Gabe escapes another parental lecture.

The end of every show is always the same. Travis cashes out and leaves the register tape and bills aside for Gabe to use with the balance sheets (Gabe gets like a little kid when it comes to tallying up receipts, he's got a failed accountant somewhere in him, Travis thinks) and then starts cleaning the place up with the volunteers, stacking the chairs and gathering the trash. He sticks on Leonard Cohen to wind down, figuring he'll just leave turning off the sound system for last.

Gabe emerges with the bank deposit slips just after Travis sends the kitchen crew home. He's standing in the middle of the floor wondering if he missed anything, clicking his tongue and looking around.

"Everything came out perfectly. I'll drop this off on the way home," Gabe says. "Yo, what's with the Cohen? You trying to make everyone fall asleep?"

Gabe fronts like he's too postmodern for Leonard Cohen, except for when he has too much bourbon and makes Travis sing Bird on a Wire with him. Travis says, "Nobody left to fall asleep. I feel like I forgot something, but I don't know what."

"We can always come back tomorrow and check," Gabe says. "It went pretty well tonight, right?"

"Yeah, it was all right."

"We're pretty awesome," Gabe says cheerfully. He forgot to take his pen from behind his ear and it's sticking out at a weird angle. There's a smear of ink on his right index finger. Travis thinks, _Yeah, I'm okay with this being my life._

"Come here," he suggests.

"I'm not drunk enough for Lenny," Gabe complains, but his sneakers squeak on the hardwood floor as he approaches. "Did this get mopped?"

"Ten minutes ago. If I slip I'm taking you down with me."

Gabe swats him. "I'm pretty sure that counts as creating a hostile work environment." He puts the bank envelope in his back pocket.

"If you cared about the work environment you'd stop playing footsie with me at board meetings," Travis points out. He swings Gabe gently around the floor. Cohen is sing-talking about the shoreline and the sea.

"I never get to lead," Gabe says, but he's trying not to smile.

Travis twirls him. "Not my fault you suck at it."

" _You_ suck," Gabe says, and drops his chin on Travis' shoulder. "I think we do all right though."

"Yeah," Travis says, soft by his ear. "We do all right."


End file.
